In the West, the dead cross the river Lethe and drink to forget their pain. Memory is a burden, mercy a clean slate.
But in the East, forgetting is not a gift—it is a duty, guarded by one who was once mortal herself.
Long ago, in a world of drought and endless war, there lived a woman who remembered too much. She saw the rise and ruin of kingdoms, the grief of widows, the cries of children left behind. When death finally came for her, she refused the peace it offered. How could the world move forward, she asked, if no one remembered its sorrow?
The gods took pity and cursed her at once. They set her beside the Bridge of Rebirth, where ten thousand souls pass each dawn, begging for another life. Her name was erased from the Book of the Dead, and she became Meng Po, the Lady of Forgetting.
Every soul that comes before her must drink from her bowl. The water inside gleams faintly, neither clear nor dark—a reflection of all lives lived and lost. Some souls kneel in gratitude; others weep as they raise the cup. And sometimes, a few hesitate, clutching the memory of love or vengeance too dearly to let go.
When that happens, Meng Po's voice, soft as falling ash, breaks the silence."You cannot cross the bridge carrying the weight of your past. The river will drag you under."
Once, a warrior stood before her, his armor stained with lifetimes of war. He clenched his teeth and spat into the bowl. "I will not forget. I will return to finish what I began."
Meng Po only smiled. "Then you shall be born a child who remembers nothing—and fight again without knowing why." She tipped the bowl, and the warrior drank.
So the souls pass, and Meng Po remains—neither alive nor dead, the last witness to every age. When dawn rises above the gray river, her shadow fades into mist.
They say the morning fog is her breath, whispering across the world: To live is to forget, and to begin again.